


The Measure of Men

by weeesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:10:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6796129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets I've posted on tumblr and didn't want to lose to the interwebs. These will be of no particular length, topic, or consistent timeline: just whatever made my fingers move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Routines

If you asked either of them, together or separately, they both would say that they despise routines. Truly hate them. Routines are for ordinary, boring people with ordinary, boring lives and there is certainly nothing ordinary or boring about jumping out of helicopters and chasing petty thieves whilst texting a complicated code to the German ambassador to indicate that yes, the condition is treatable, and no, no one has to know except for maybe that secret mistress in Vienna that is actually no secret to a rather clever wife.

Ordinary and boring have no space in their life. Impossible to commit to a routine.

Yet.

They do have routines. They follow them constantly, without thinking, without realising just to what lengths they go to keep each other well-oiled, ticking, content, challenged. Happy.

John never washes Sherlock’s tea mug from where it sits next to his microscope unless it has been two days without a case, and then when he does, he puts a lump of sugar in it still empty, so that when Sherlock adds his own later the other will dissolve unnoticed in the fresh pour of just boiled water.

Sherlock bins the most disgusting items in the fridge and gives the worktop a once-over when John sends a “Tesco?” text on his way home from the surgery and afterward concedes to do the washing up, moving in tandem: close the cupboard, step to the right, circle around the table, put away the plates. Dirty drying linens swap hands and get bundled into the pile of laundry. 

Laundry’s done irregularly but when it’s done, Sherlock loads it (everything that’s not sent away to be dry cleaned, of course, which for him is rather minimal and for John is rather a lot) and John folds it.

John squeezes out the last spurts of toothpaste and Sherlock bins the tube.

Sherlock leaves his bedroom door open on nights when John has nightmares. He leaves it open an extra few inches more when he’s ill, knowing that John will want to check on him without aggravating the squeaky hinge at three in the morning.

John withdraws an extra £40 at the weekend, which he knows will go to cabs and Thai takeaway and potentially a bribe for a particularly unreliable member of the homeless network.

The first time, John buys the lube. All the times after that, Sherlock does, until they decide to switch brands after a short holiday to Sicily and John has to special order (privately, of course) through a contact at the surgery.

Each time, it starts with sighs and _please_ and small, hot hands smoothing over pale, cool skin as it moves into more and _more_ and _just there, you’re brilliant_ , and _there’s nothing I ever wanted more than this_ and a flurry of expletives or a name, a poem of consonants and vowels whispered over and over beneath an inky curl or a tuft of sandy hair. It always, always, always ends with gulping a shared glass of cold water straight from the taps and wiping sweat off each other with a flannel and _I’ll order the same as before_ , _love_ shouted out of the clouds of steam from the shower as fingers dial numbers and click on the telly. 

Sherlock pulls the takeaway out of the carrier bag, John collects a rogue blanket to toss over their outstretched legs, and Sherlock steals John’s food twice as often if a Bond film is on, because John still gets a bit caught up and fails to notice a sneaky pinch or two of chopsticks in his direction. 

No. They don’t have routines.


	2. Weaknesses

It happens for the first time when Sherlock is eight.

Well. Seven and a half, if you want to be precise about it.

He’s dawdling, dragging a long stick behind his legs that coughs up puffs of fine dry dirt as he walks, the ants scrambling back into their orderly lines to chase routine until the end of time.

Sherlock is bored. The stick becomes a foil. A better instrument than Mycroft’s abandoned (now bent) one crammed beneath Sherlock’s bed between a box of dissected things and a box of things to be dissected.

The foil meets tree, meets fence, meets ground, meets five inches from the back of Mycroft’s haughty head. Then it meets: it.

Sherlock doesn’t cry, but if he is to be honest with himself, he is a bit scared. Nearly eight, he can’t let on. He scratches at it later and curses fencing to the pits of hell. Mum and Dad were very worried (and Mycroft too, though he would rather swim naked up the Thames than admit it). Sherlock doesn’t like for people to worry.

It’s tedious. Only weak people worry. Sherlock will never be weak.

***

The next time it happens, Sherlock is twenty.

He’s high, which makes the aftermath challenging, to say the least.

He wasn’t alone when it happened, which also made the aftermath challenging for totally unrelated reasons. Somehow the string dangling between life and death didn’t hold the same weight as it did when he was seven and a half, and Sherlock lets him know, tells it to his face one night over too many cigarettes and an iloveyou that almost slipped into the smoke pressed up into the starless sky.

He becomes fascinated with them. In some ways, it’s more tempting than the drugs.

***

It happens two more times in the In-between. Largely uneventful. Sneaky bugger in a rose bush, then while cleaning out the shower.  
He takes care of it himself. He’s had to prepare, after all.

He’s alone.

***

There are more times. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but it’s part of life.

***

The eleventh time it happens, Sherlock waits. No use running inside. He’ll come in a moment, always does at ten of if Sherlock’s not sat in his chair scribbling notes or having the latest spread over a crust of toast.

Not the best toast, from the bread he makes, but the bread Sherlock makes. Only for experimenting.

Ah. Ten of. Cup of steaming tea and a swat on the backside with the morning’s paper. Never mind a rush. He’s already come, winks a fond crinkle before he notices. In less than a moment, he’s got the injector in hand, and then the familiar click and pinch and release and rush of adrenaline and the beep-beep-beep-beep of nine-nine-nine-send.

“It’s my husband again,” John rushes just a breath too fast into the phone. “Bloody hobby.”

He lets John’s calloused fingers feel for his pulse. It’s a bit erratic, but John’s hand is steady. As always.

“As always, you’ve saved me, doctor,” Sherlock smiles.

Sherlock is allergic to bees.


	3. Risks

_Do not take any risks_.

  
John reads; and sits.

  
The busker at the foot of the escalators in St. Paul’s station was playing some old guitar Bob Dylan as they swept past on a wintry wet night in November, singing about rolling stones and all that and the only thing John can think about is the wave of mint that drifts beneath his nose as the woman next to him chews, and breathes, and chews.

 _Do not take any risks_.

  
_In an emergency_.

  
John remembers Kandahar and sweats inside his jacket, inside his shirt, inside his vest, for no other reason than a memory and the smell of mint.

  
Beside him, Sherlock fidgets.

  
John counts and breathes and the woman next to him switches her mobile off. She pulls out her earbuds and shifts her handbag from hand to hand to toss them inside. The lining of the bag is velvety dark and John sweats in his vest, in his shirt, in his jacket, thinking of Kandahar and mint and hands and risks.

  
_Do not take any risks_.

  
Beside him, Sherlock fidgets.

  
The next stop is… and John blinks awake again, current, remembering the case and what he’s supposed to be doing once they get to the man’s flat. Esquire or equine or equivalent or something. Words flutter through the buzzing space behind his eyes and the woman with the velvety dark-lined handbag looks over at him as she crosses and re-crosses her legs. A twitch of an eyebrow down at her phone, blond fringe, pink case.

  
John sweats.

  
“Esquire,” Sherlock says out of nowhere. The thumb of his right hand grazes against the seam of John’s jacket. An accident. Sherlock does nothing by accident.

  
_Do not take any risks_.

  
The woman meets John’s eyes, and Sherlock’s head is between John’s hands and then he presses his mouth to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and the woman, dark-velvet-inside-handbag, the blond woman with the fringe, watches them.

  
Sherlock’s mouth doesn’t taste like mint.


	4. Fears

There he is, sunk into a grimy claw-foot bathtub in a seedy flat on the outer rim of Montmartre. His bones ache in a way that feels like plums ripening in a bitter spring, bursting sour yellow from need of heat.

He spits out a tooth that after a pulpy bounce lands somewhere between the bottom two feet of the tub.

The funny detective in the funny hat.

He killed a man today and he figures it is not enough.

The way she'd stared past him, he should've--it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, but then the threat only lasted as long as he was aware of it. He could chase away dreams or lock them up and there were still enough left over to turn copper on his tongue. A promise that felt like finally the key to the memory.

It is not enough.

Once, he'd thought, perhaps being not enough would be satisfactory, at least in close proximity. But then he had left after all.

 

********

 

There he is, sunk into the corner of a newly refurbished porcelain shower stall in someone else's flat in Pimlico, dripping into the palm of his hand. He'd lost himself all over again and tasted sand and blood and sweat and so now he shakes out his knee, stretches the memories out thin. Kandahar. Moss beneath blue-cloaked bodies on the pavement.

He sees things with his eyes shut.

At the centre of it all, he knows he cannot continue like this. If you asked to tear open his chest and look along the spaces between his ribs, he'd agree if only for the proof of the words written there.

_You loved him and you did nothing._

He doesn't notice the water's gone cold until his teeth chatter, unweighted stones in his jaw. Words he will never say carve themselves into secret spaces when he dreams.

 


	5. Assumptions

“Mr. Holmes! Hullo!”

  
The man, decked out in expensive, neon-coloured cycling kit, manoeuvres through the heavy crowd until he reaches the spot where Mr. Holmes is stood holding an armful of extra gear, a quick emergency bag, a half-full bottle of rapidly warming water, and a half-empty mug of rapidly cooling tea.

  
“Richard, all right?”

  
The two white-haired men shake hands after Mr. Holmes shuffles the contents of his arms, each of their faces graced with a warm smile.

  
“Been ages, hasn’t it! Are you well?”

  
“Yes, quite. Still getting up to the old habits, I see…”

  
“Ah, this old thing.” Richard gestures to his incredibly fit 72-year-old body. “Sometimes does what I want if I promise a biscuit or two afterward.”

  
(Mr. Holmes knows this is a lie. Richard hasn’t eaten a biscuit since Thatcher lived at number 10.)

  
“Right. Right.” Mr. Holmes glanced over at the racecourse.

  
“You have someone in the relay today?”

  
“My son-in-law.”

  
“Brilliant. Which leg?”

  
“The run. Shoulder’s no good for a swim, and cycling…he’s rather put off, for some reason.”

  
“Ah.” Richard shifts to let a woman and a child pass by. “And the ol’ boy is up for running 13–”

  
“He was an Army captain, so I’d say he’s up for more than either of us ever were, Richard.” Mr. Holmes smiles and takes a long drink from his mug.

  
“Sorry.”

  
“Nothing to be sorry about.”

  
The two men stand in silence for a brief and awkward moment.

  
“You’re standing guard here alone then?” Richard ventures, sweeping his gaze around their small pocket of crowd.

  
Mr. Holmes nods. “Seems so, alone for now. He went on ahead down the course, I’d imagine. Even made a sign.”

  
Richard accepts a bottle of cold water from a volunteer. “But you said your son-in-law is competing?”

  
“John, yes, he is. Terribly proud of him, our John.”

  
“So your daughter…she made the sign.”

  
“No, I’ve got just the two boys.”

  
Richard looks momentarily confused. “Ah, right. Mycroft is the eldest, government work?”

  
“Spot on. Well. He’s head of MI5 now. Never comes for Christmases anymore. My wife’s despondent until she remembers she can skip the puds.”

  
Richard laughs. “And your other son, the detective?”

  
“Sherlock.”

  
“He’s-”

  
“He’s John’s.”


	6. Idiosyncrasies

Sherlock types v-a-c-c-u-m.

The red and squiggly line that immediately appears beneath the word puts him off, so he slams down the open shell of John's laptop and scrubs his hand through his hair as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Vaccum. VacUUm. Dammit.

Two U's. A pair. Twin u letters, the 21st letter of the Latin alphabet, the fifth vowel. No, twenty-first and fifth or 21st and 5th, no crossing over. Sloppy. Hm. A bunch of U's together look funny. UUUUUUU. The letter U was first used in a Gothic alphabet in 1386. The letter U is pronounced differently after labial consonants. In Welsh the letter U can represent a long close front unrounded vowel or short near-close near-front unrounded vowel. The letter U is the chemical symbol for uranium. It is the symbol for potential energy of a system, the atomic mass unit, one enzyme unit, a mathematical union, and can also be used for micro in metric measurements. The letter U has 32 diacritics. The use or non-use of U in spellings implies which side of a giant puddle you (u!) were born on, or spent time in, or generally like better.

The letter U in Morse code is represented by two dots and a dash.

Two dots and a dash.

..-

Two U's is ..-..-

He drums a long finger against the desk.

The desk drums back. The desk--no, not the desk, something else is drumming back. Drumming on the back of his hand.

... .... . .-. .-.. --- -.-. -.-

His heart-rate slows. S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K

.- .-.. .-.. / .-. .. --. .... - ..--..

He breathes in as he receives and counts dots and dashes. A-L-L R-I-G-H-T ?

Oh.

It's him.

-.-- . ...

Y-E-S, he drums with his eyes closed, D-I-D Y-O-U K-N-O-W T-H-E W-O-R-D V-A-C-U-U-M H-A-S T-W-O O-F T-H-E L-E-T-T-E-R U?

He feels John's fingers curl, then close down over the back of his hand, palm pressing lightly into his skin. John's other hand comes to bracket the curve of Sherlock's shoulder. It's a gentle touch that instantly settles the Gothic alphabet and uranium and diacritics all back into their rightful places in the shelves in the cupboards in the rooms in the memory palace.

It's quiet.

"I did," John says very softly and very slowly as he moves his hand from Sherlock's shoulder, thumbs open the laptop, and deletes the word. "Line's gone, Sherlock."

Sherlock opens his eyes.

John's other hand is still over Sherlock's hand, steady and warm, so Sherlock moves his, turns it palm up beneath John's.

He taps the rhythm on the inside of John's wrist.

\- .... . / --- -. .-.. -.-- / ..- / - .... .- - / -- .- - - . .-. ... / .. ... / -.-- --- ..-

T-H-E O-N-L-Y U T-H-A-T M-A-T-T-E-R-S I-S Y-O-U

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to the wiki page for the letter u.


	7. Uncertainties

“John! Cab!” Sherlock shouts from the bottom of the steps up to 221B.

“A minute!”

  
John gathers their luggage up into one hand and glances about the sitting room. Everything seems in its place. Well, marginally in its place. It’s not like things in the flat have designated places, more like things just sort of land and scurry out of the way if they’re lucky.

  
_I’m lucky_ , John thinks.

  
He lets the thought simmer undisturbed for a moment.

  
_I can’t find a clean mug most of the time and I don’t remember when I last slept through an entire night and I have a bruised rib and ate something potentially inedible out of the fridge yesterday and I’m lucky_.

  
Why?

  
Because of…of…

  
“John! If you’ve found the lungs–actually never mind–”

  
_Him_.

  
John dumps the overnight bags into a heap on the carpet and scrambles over to the desk. Back of a Tesco receipt will have to do. He thinks for a few seconds, smoothing out a crinkle at the corner of the paper. Sherlock is monologuing below.

  
“–other than the lungs and also Molly said I could have it if I kept it locked up so, pretend there’s a lock on it and ooh now Mrs. Hudson is having it out–” and the door slams.

John grabs a biro, scribbles the note and tucks it into a pocket on Sherlock’s bag. He zips it in tight.

 

*

 

Paddington makes John sweat. Partially because of vivid memories of the very public breakup he’d once endured at Platform 4 and partially because of the note tucked away out of sight next to £70 conditioner and what had felt like a very silky pair of navy blue pants.

  
_Oh god, what was I thinking_.

  
He looks over to Sherlock, who’s currently harassing an attendant at a car hire stall about their plans for making the journey to Grimpen village.

  
“You mean you want a Land Rover,” the attendant chirps, “for all the way to Devon?!”

  
John feels nearly sick.

  
He can’t find it. He can’t let Sherlock find the note.

  
But.

  
What if he does?

  
What then?

  
John hadn’t thought that far.

  
Actually he’d thought that far a lot but Sherlock’s response always seemed to differ in his imaginings. He couldn’t be sure which it would be today.

  
His heart stabs a rhythm against the bruised rib.

  
“My driving licence is in my bag–John, bring me–”

  
John nearly tears a thin slice of skin off the back of his hand, so urgently he opens and shoves past the zip into the pocket to dig out his weakness.

  
Scribbled on the back of a Tesco receipt.

  
_What kind of man offers anything of himself on the back of a Tesco receipt_.

  
Rather showed his cards, there.

  
Sherlock’s eyes flash brightly as he turns his head. “John?” In just a moment, he’ll start to deduce, to scan–there it is, he’s starting. Back and forth and back again and he’ll know. Here: in the middle of Paddington.

  
_He’ll know._

  
“Nothing. Got it–I’ve got it. Here.” John lowers the wallet into Sherlock’s open palm and in his other hand balls the receipt into the dark creases of his fist. Maybe if he can just roll it small enough it will disappear.

  
Nothing happens. The cards are safely back against his chest.

  
Later, _You make my luck_ shreds into little fuzzy pieces in the wash and sticks to the rough fabric lining the left front pocket of his jeans.

  
He will never quite get it out.


	8. Certainties

It’s a chilly Monday night in January when John knows.

  
Not knows, but _knows_.

  
Clear as crystal.

  
They’ve just returned to the flat after a dinner out at Angelo’s (two green salads; a bread basket with dipping oil; Sherlock: pesto gnocchi; John: prawn linguine; a bottle of the second-best dry red Angelo could scrounge up; five bites each of tiramisu plus one extra Sherlock sneaks whilst John is in the gents; and one peppermint that John tucks into the pocket of his cheek as they wait for a cab.)

  
Back in the sitting room of 221b, Sherlock wings out of his great coat and heaps it over the shambles of what looks like the frayed end of a laptop charger and a laptop curiously missing its screen. John pretends not to notice the cover-up as he digs through the cupboards for the now mostly-empty bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail that Sherlock had lowered nonchalantly into their mostly-full trolley during a recent spending spree at Waitrose. (Thanks to a client’s generous tip, John had also splurged on not one but two rather posh candles for bathtime. Sherlock, bless his heart, had said nothing and tossed in a packet of Twirl Bites for good measure).

  
“Want a little?” John gestures with an empty glass.

  
“A finger.” Sherlock hums, prodding the early burst of flames beneath his hands. A comforting _pop_ shoots sparks up into the dark cool air of the chimney. “Actually give me two fingers.”

  
John refuses to acknowledge the way the tips of his ears heat.

  
He pours their shares, spins the cap tightly back on the bottle, and leaves it be on the worktop. Coming over and holding a glass out to Sherlock, he plops down in his chair. “Been thinking more about that cold case.” He lets out a low groan as he readjusts the Union Jack pillow at the small of his back. “It could be argyria.”

  
“Argyria.” Sherlock’s fingers curl around his glass. He cocks an eyebrow in the way only Sherlock can cock an eyebrow.

  
“Why not?” John leans forward slightly. “A condition where skin turns an abnormal shade of grey-blue due to prolonged contact with silver salts. Victim worked in manufacturing, something with solar energy stuff.”

  
“Silver’s used in the photovoltaic conductive ink–”

  
“–which he produced, didn’t he?”

  
They stare at each other for a moment. A curve of a smile teases the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Well done, John.”

  
“I’m certain that’s what it is.” John moves to set his glass down on the small table next to his chair. The fire crackles pleasantly at his feet. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle as he lets the smile blossom fully into his features, a slight flush from the warmth of the room colouring high on his cheekbones.

  
 _God, you’re beautiful_ , John thinks.

  
“I’ll phone Lestrade tomorrow,” Sherlock nods. Crosses then uncrosses his ankles.

  
“Not now?”

  
“No, I’m…rather certain.” Sherlock means to glance at the fireplace, John thinks, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t look anywhere but at John’s face. Then his gaze instead flickers to John’s mouth before circling back up.

  
“I’m quite certain too.” John says a hint too loudly as his grin drops fondness into the well-worn lines round his eyes.

  
He feels alive. Purely, unabashedly happy and alive.

  
“You’ve mentioned.” Sherlock lets his knees bounce apart as he eases his bum down further in his chair. A floppy curl breaks free from its twin to grace his forehead as he ducks his chin down to his chest, the whisky rolling amber and loose in the glass still in his hand.

  
“Have I done?” John nearly whispers. He feels magnetised, unable to look away.

  
 _God, you’re incredibly beautiful_ , he thinks again.

  
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble. He winks.

  
 _We’re…_ flirting. _And I think he knows_.

  
 _I know too_.

  
John doesn’t feel afraid.

  
“There’s a few other things I’m certain of.” The fire snaps a punctuation of sparks in-between his words. “For example,” he feels his tongue dip out between his lips, wetting them, which catches Sherlock’s gaze again, “I’m certain that Angelo brought out that bottle because you asked him to.”

  
Sherlock nods again, conceding silently, as his eyes flick back up to John’s.

  
“I’m certain that you already researched the argyria diagnosis and told Lestrade about it.”

  
Sherlock starts to shake his head, but stops when John raises both eyebrows. Gracefully he shifts into a gentle nod and lets his legs drift even further apart.

  
John swallows.

  
“I’m certain that tonight at dinner… It was nice. I liked it, being there with you.” John says. “In a way I didn’t want it to end.”

  
“I did.” Sherlock never fails to surprise in the least surprising ways.

  
The thing is, John knows better now. “You did?”

  
“Oh I’m certain.” A soft smile. “I like this quite a bit more than eating pesto gnocchi in public.”

  
“Hmm.” John expects for his heart to burst out through his ribs, or for his palms to be sweating, or for his breath to be high and tight and shaky but he feels none of those things, none at all. “Come to think of it, I guess I did too.”

  
Sherlock asks him the question he’s been waiting for. “Why?”

  
The moment is perfectly ordinary in the most extraordinary way. Sat in their chairs, fire burning, together, at home.

  
“Because I was certain of another thing.” John feels a long awaited dawning deep in his core. “I was certain that I wanted to come back here and ask if I could kiss you.”  
He waits, searching Sherlock’s face.

  
It’s the best first kiss John’s ever had.

  
**

  
The two glasses of whisky sit, all but forgotten, until John tips them down the sink four days later with a pair of cupid bow lips pressed against the back of his neck, soft and warm just along the edge of his hairline.


	9. Endings

_His eyes were fixed._

Stop.

_His pupils had already dilated by the time I reached him._

STOP.

John fumbles with the taps, turns the water cold, hot again. He wants his skin to scald off in strips. He wants it to freeze, crystallise, shatter into tiny pieces. He wants to peel it off cell by cell by cell until his fingernails bleed.

He wants to not feel anything but the sensation of losing something other than Sherlock.

He steps under the stream of water. It has no temperature. A few minutes later he remembers to unclench his fingers from the taps.

_His eyes were fixed and his pupils were dilated. His eyes were fixed and his pupils were dilated. His eyes were fixed and his pupils were dilated._

Mike steered him inside for a hot shower after John had started shaking, sat outside in the back garden for hours. He'd left 221B with nothing but Sherlock's half-smoked packet of cigarettes.

He hadn't even put on his shoes.

He sat in Mike Stamford's back garden and smoked every single one of Sherlock's cigarettes, the butts stubbed into a pot of dirt, until his tongue was numb and his lungs burned.

_Were his eyes fixed? It almost looked like-_

"Stop it."

John says the words out loud, feels them take up space in the dense air of the shower stall.

The next ones he holds tight in his mouth until they break him.


	10. Thoughts

_I love John._

Sherlock cocks his head to one side and considers.

He's in the checkout queue at Sainsbury's - not his usual milieu but John had left him scrambling to pick up something "edible" for dinner and "not something you shove in the microwave and leave to burn whilst you putter about with those porcine lungs, Sherlock."

Sherlock agrees: that's not what you ought to do for someone you love.

He moves up a metre or so, and cocks his head the other direction. A cheery jingle assaults his ears from inside the leather purse of the woman in front of him. He fiddles with the package of mushrooms in his hand as she pulls out her mobile to answer. 

"Veronica! How _are_ you, love..." she coos into the phone.

What he will do with mushrooms, he's not quite sure. You can eat mushrooms, he knows. Some of them anyway.

 _I love John_ , his brain reminds him.

This is nothing new. This is not a new thought, or a revelation, just a reminder. He's known he loves John since, well, long ago. Before the wedding and his best man speech. Before he came back. Before he left. He's loved John for years, really. It's nothing new.

The woman on the phone moves up another metre, and so does Sherlock.

Should he get milk? _Can you make something with milk and mushrooms?_

On the surface that sounds terrible, but...

_John would know how to make something with milk and mushrooms. He's good at making that pea thing. He's good at cooking, really. There's a lot of things he's quite capable of._

Sherlock shifts the package of mushrooms to his other hand. The woman in front of him rings off her phone and steps up to the waiting checkout worker. 

_John knows how to use a gun and how to stop bleeding. He runs in front of cabs and though crosswalks and waits until I'm properly stroppy to fix me another cup with another spoonful of sugar. He sleeps on his left side and likes persimmons and never, ever forgets to text Harry on her birthday. He trusts me with himself. He knows I miscalculate and he follows me through to the wrong ending. He never left, even after I did, and he believed in me even when I didn't._

"All set, mate? Just that for you then?" The worker beckons him forward. 

_I'm in love with John._

That thought is quite new.

"I need some milk," Sherlock answers.

 


	11. Conversations

"Hullo again, you."

"I've only been gone...two minutes."

"Yeah. That's one hundred and twenty seconds--"

"I am familiar with basic maths, John."

"--that I could've spent kissing you and pulling off that Peppa Pig plaster stuck to your coat."

"...No. Is there really."

"Left shoulder, love. Saw it out the window. Rosie must've done a sneak attack."

"Clever girl."

"You've taught her well."

"John, have you ever considered that Peppa Pig's head looks like--"

"'Course I have."

"...but it is a bit too pink, isn't it. I mean, the general shape is right, but."

"Hm, yes. But."

"Is this a dad conversation?"

"I dunno. Two dads. Peppa Pig. Shall I start in on the Bing Bong Song for you?"

"Christ, my ears are still bleeding."

"So see you after you're finished with the Prime Minister?"

"I'll bring you a treat."

"Another set of kidneys for the crisper?! I'm a lucky man."

"I rather thought that...thing...we spotted in the shop."

"Oh."

"Not good?"

"Very good."

"Any, uh, other requests?"

"Surprise me."

"Alright."

"I'll be home."

"Love you, John."

"More than anything."

"More than kidneys. Or...things. Or the bloody Bing Bong Song."

"Love you too."

"Bing bong boo."

 


	12. Firsts

His unwashed, pale body.

Limbs over limbs climbing to reach his face, the curve of his jaw. Rough patterns. Breath-speech and heartbeat beating beat burst into endless kaleidoscopes of _he's mine, he's mine, he's mine, he's mine_ , until you're sick with it, the colours.

You remember indigo and the look he gives you.

In the dark you find places where body turns summer-pink and pulsing. Make him centre to your touch. Planes of skin over skin and blood iron, he spreads his legs for you to taste the memories of fistfights, of grass-stained silk, the cough of budding petals pressed against your cheek, of the splinter in your chest. Burrow into him. Take him in the palms of your hands, hold him thick and spin him out, spun into circles of fine thin fibres that tug at you like a hook.

Caught.

Again.

Knees peeled wide and eyes shut, you count the ins and outs. _What happens to the end of things_ , the words come with your mouth against a divot in his spine, _what happens when things turn white_. He moans and you cup him, tender, as he curves to fit you.


	13. Admissions

An ordinary afternoon: he thinks, and places the cup of his hand over the cage of John’s ribs.

Sunlight casts shadows over mountain ranges of duvet and John twitches his fingers, wraps them around a particularly pink-looking ear. 

“Suppose we’ve an hour?”

Sherlock glances, not at the battered bedside clock, but at the watch wrapped round John’s wrist. “Only just. Maybe 45 minutes if we’re lucky.”

“Who needs luck,” John murmurs against a scrape of jaw.

They kiss.

Later, sunlight stretches into early twilight, and as they stretch out side-by-side on the big downstairs bed, John draws abstractions on Sherlock’s thigh. Touches the soft inside skin. Pulls gentle fingertips through downy hair, wiry hair. Sherlock shivers. Through the dusty windowpane he watches the setting sun move: a finger’s width, then a palm.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Go on.”

They shift onto their sides, all the better to face one another. John, expectant, leaves one hand on Sherlock, the other tucks up beneath his cheek against the pillow. 

Sherlock steadies his breath. Inhales.

“I want to be your.” Exhale. “Husband.”

John’s eyes widen. A moment, and then: a burst of a laugh, a true belly-deep laugh that makes a lovely sound and echoes into Sherlock’s skin before John slides his hand away. Without a word, he rolls from his side to his back to his other side, and with a deft pinch of fingers, tugs open the drawer of the bedside table and picks out a small box.

Sherlock’s brain says _crimson crushed velvet 5cm x 5cm bespoke jeweler perfect size for a—_ just as John says with a grin, “Hoped so.”

The ring, of course, fits perfectly.


End file.
